


Something Other

by ceely



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, One Shot, POV Outsider, Spoilers for The Magnus Archives Season 5 Trailer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:22:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23529853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceely/pseuds/ceely
Summary: When the Tea-That-Was-Not-Tea sneaks into a cottage in the Scottish countryside, it expects nothing more than an easy scare. Instead, it finds (for better or worse) much more than it bargained for.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 18
Kudos: 227





	Something Other

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](https://statementends.tumblr.com/post/613506811165884416/the-monster-tea-squirming-away-as-fast-as-it-can) text post from @statementends on tumblr, because I loved it.
> 
> Also, apologies in advance for using "John" rather than "Jon." It is too late for me, I cannot unsee this.

It is, at least vaguely, at least for the moment, everything that tea should be—pourable and stir-able, mug-sized, warm, comforting. But it being Not-What-It-Is, it is of course more than that.

Or perhaps less? More complicated, at least. The Tea-But-Not doesn’t bother itself much with semantics. It bothers itself with very little beyond fear and its pursuit, and considering how close it is to a hearty meal, it needs consider nothing else. There _is_ nothing else. When the Tea-Question-Mark bothers to have a mouth, it salivates in anticipation of the moment when the brewing man realizes what he holds in his mug. Or, rather, what he does _not_ hold.

He will likely scream. The Never-Sometimes-Always-Tea likes the thought of that. And afterwards? Who knew. Maybe it would “eat” him. Admittedly, the Tea-Thing is not entirely sure what this means, but the people have been thrumming with the fear of it, so it must at the very least be worth an attempt.

It waits, quivering in the mug. Perhaps the man thinks it is his hands that tremble. “I brought some tea,” he says at last, and the Some-Tea in question thinks _Finally!_

But then another voice replies, “No, you didn’t.”

The Tea-That-He-Didn’t-Bring stops. Did its eager shuddering give it away? No, that shouldn’t be— _couldn’t_ be. If someone noticed that, it should’ve just been…been _ominous!_

The brewer tries to argue in favor of the “Tea” being tea, and it does its best to act the part: oh, look at me, just tea and nothing more—won’t it taste so good? Won’t it be just what you need right now? Won’t it just warm you up as you take a sip? Oh, don’t worry, nothing else will happen, nothing will feel _wrong_ about it, nothing will come crawling back out your throat, or _through_ it—

It is difficult for the Tea-What-Else not to quiver at the thought, but it manages.

But it does no good. The other man keeps explaining. He logics it all out in a way that _hurts_ the thing that thrives on impossibilities of yes _and_ no, this _and_ that _and_ neither. The other man pins it down, though, and calls it what it is, forever and always: _Not-Tea._ The Not-Tea cannot help it now: it hisses at this intrusion. And fine—if that’s how this _other_ wants it, they can all be done with the looming sense of unease that comes before the main show. It's time for the screaming.

The tea-brewer does scream, and that is good. But then as the mug falls, and shatters, and it becomes more _Not_ than _Tea_ , it is seen. Not just seen, but _Seen._

_The Eye._

The other man is not a man at all—he is the Archivist, and the Archivist _Sees_ the Not-Tea. Only two of his eyes are open, and the glance only lasts a moment, but that is enough. When the Not-Tea hisses again, the mouth that such a noise requires remains. It becomes truth: the Not-Tea has a mouth, and it has all the legs it needs to skitter away, and it has at least a few eyes to stare back in terror at the thing that watches it. Eventually, it will no longer be a _Not-That_ , but a definite _This,_ and the Not-Tea will be dead, nothing more than a simple, stagnant, singular corpse.

For the first time, the Not-Tea realizes that fear runs both ways.

And it flees. It expects this to be a futile gesture—legs are just so much slower than ‘ _something in the corner of my eye’_ —but the Archivist does not follow. Instead, the Archivist and the human continue to talk. The Not-Tea runs as far as it can. With these little, half-formed, _real_ legs, this is not very far at all. It wedges itself between a wall and a cabinet and pleads with the universe that the monster not find it amongst the cobwebs.

* * *

The Not-Tea watches them—human and Archivist both—as they sweep up shattered bits of mug. It ignores its natural inclination to confuse, or startle, or frighten. It does not move. It tries not to be there at all. But, thanks to that damned Eye, it _is_ there, and the human sees him when he bends over to look for more scattered shards of ceramic.

“Oh!” He jumps, but he is not afraid, only startled. “You’re still here, then?”

It hisses, but the human does not react beyond frowning.

The Archivist comes closer. The Not-Tea hears the shuffle of his feet across the floorboards. The human blocks his view of the Not-Tea, though, and for that it is grateful.

“Do you want me to take care of it?” the Archivist says. His voice seems dead, flat. The Not-Tea presses itself further into a corner.

“Oh, I—I don’t know. I know you don’t like spiders, but—”

“That’s not a spider.”

The human turns back to the Not-Tea. His gaze doesn’t hurt like the Archivist’s, but it still bristles as the human’s eyes land on it. It isn’t meant to be seen dead on. “Hm. I suppose not. But it is spider…adjacent? I’ll handle it.”

The Archivist murmurs something indistinct, but the human is already trying to sweep the Not-Tea up into his dustpan.

“Come here, come along,” he mutters, as if the Not-Tea cannot understand, as if it is nothing more terrifying than a common household spider: something grotesque, perhaps, but ultimately harmless.

The human should be _afraid_.

But the Archivist still has not left, and the force of his attention seems to weigh down the very air. That attention isn’t turned on the Not-Tea, not yet, but it’s there all the same: a threat. Faced with the choice between being unfrightening and being frightened itself, the Not-Tea scuttles into the dustpan.

“There we are,” the human says, and smiles. He wasn’t afraid at all, then. But neither was the Not-Tea afraid of him, and with the Archivist standing ready to stare it down, that felt like enough.

The human takes him to the front door and set it down. He pauses before opening it, though.

“Will you...be all right out there, then?”

And then, in the hesitation, in the quiet cast of the human's voice, the Not-Tea finds it at last: the fear. Not afraid of the Not-Tea, oh no, but afraid of the out-there, and all that it might or might not hold. The Not-Tea doesn’t know how to digest this, a fear that is not _of_ it or _of_ the human, but of something else. Even stranger—the human is afraid _for_ something. Something beyond himself. The Not-Tea hesitates.

The human laughs and shook his head. “Right. Of course. What am I talking to?” he mutters. He opens the door. Just a crack, of course, but it is enough to let the wail of the outside world into this quiet place. “Off you go.”

And the Not-Tea does go—but it does not go far.

* * *

It waits for the dark that is Night-But-Not-Night and creeps back into the cottage. It is harder this time; before, it could just be Wait-That-Wasn’t-Here-Before, no explanation needed. Now, half real as it is, the Not-Tea has to squeeze itself through the narrow space beneath the door. But difficult though it may be—and terrifying, when it thinks of the monster that stalks these halls—the Not-Tea is curious about the human and his fear-but-not-fear.

The cottage is quiet now. The skittering of the Not-Tea’s legs and other, vaguer appendages is the only sound—at least, until it finds the room with the bed. Here there is rustling, and breathing, and tossing and turning and all the small sounds of distress: a nightmare. The Not-Tea can recognize the fear easily enough. It’s all coming from the larger of the two lumps beneath the comforter, the one closer to the door: the human. The Not-Tea inches closer.

“I don’t understand what you’re doing back here.” 

The voice is soft, but in the stillness of the room it carries, and—it does not come from the human, who still sleeps in fits. The Archivist: he _knows._ And this time the human is not here with a smile and a dustpan to save it. The Archivist is the only one awake, and how foolish of the Not-Tea to expect anything else, to become so distracted by something other than fear as to forget what truly governs this world.

The Archivist is sitting up now. Though he isn’t Looking at the Not-Tea, it knows it’s only a matter of time, because _all_ of his eyes are open now, and glowing through the gloom. It cannot run, it cannot even summon a pathetic hiss to defend itself. All it can do is quiver in the face of a greater fear.

“I don’t understand,” the Archivist repeats. “There’s nothing for you here. There isn’t any…”

The human groans, digs his fingers into the comforter like it is a lifeline. The Archivist reaches a hand out for his shoulder, but pauses before making contact. For a moment the eyes on his fingers and the eyes on his face stare at one another. Then, he curls his hand and pulls it back into his lap.

“Well,” the Archivist says. “There isn’t any fear for you, at least. I’m not afraid of you. And neither is Martin. You’ll—you’ll starve. So why are you _here?_ ”

The Archivist still does not Look at the Not-Tea, but the air between them shivers with static. And though the Not-Tea has no voice, still it must answer—and so it slides, gently, closer to the human’s still-slumbering form.

The Archivist’s eyes squint as he processes the gesture, and all the unspoken knowledge that is pulled out along with it. He rubs at his eyes and then finally, strangely, chuckles. “Yeah,” he says. “Me, too.”

At this, it seems, the human’s breath hitches—and then steadies. “John?” he murmurs.

“Sorry,” the Archivist says as his eyes close. The two that remain glow only dimly. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Why are you up?” The human’s voice sharpens, and he sits up to say, “Is something wrong?”

“I, uh—no. No more than usual, at least.” He inclines his head towards the Not-Tea. “Your friend is back.”

“My—?” The human turns and sees the Not-Tea. He rubs at his eyes. “Oh. What…why _?”_

“I think it likes you.”

“It—it _likes_ me?” the human stammers.

The Archivist only shrugs.

“Huh.” The human lays his head back down on the pillow, but still faces the Not-Tea. “Come here, then.”

The human lets one arm dangle over the side of the bed, which—considering the dark and unknown gap between bedframe and floor—seems foolhardy, but he doesn’t seem to care. Or, the Not-Tea thinks, remembering his face when he stood at the door, remembering his nightmare, perhaps he simply does it anyway. The human’s fingers curl at the Not-Tea in a _come-here_ gesture.

And despite the dark and the Archivist, the Not-Tea does. The human shifts himself into an upright position once it settles into his hand, taking the Not-Tea up amongst the blankets with him. It slither-walks itself into the center of his palm, and the human laughs at the sensation of it.

“You know, it’s actually not that bad,” he says. “As far as apocalypse things sneaking into the safehouse go.”

“Martin, if you’re trying to convince me that this thing is _cute,_ I swear—”

“Oh, just look,” the human says, and holds the Not-Tea out towards the Archivist. It goes still.

But the Archivist does not look. He only replies, “I think I’d kill it if I did,” and as he does the Not-Tea begins to consider the impossible idea that the Archivist will _not_ look, will _not_ kill it, despite…well, everything. Despite the mere fact that he could. Despite its fear.

“Best not, I suppose.” The human pulls the Not-Tea closer to his chest and rubs a thumb against one of its real-and-there legs.

The Archivist can change his mind at any moment. His eyes are now only for his human, but it would only take a moment for him to glance down and the Not-Tea to reality like a butterfly on a board. It would be safer for the Not-Tea to run. It is what the fear tells it to do even now.

But the fear is not the only thing. It is most things, yes, but even now it is not the only. And so the Not-Tea stays. Even if it’s only for a moment, it stays.


End file.
